I’m playing with prose in between sorting the next book… in title-less ways like this:

It was something that was fiercely (personal) affective.

My pouting lips twisted in a way where (withheld) words fought the air for a treasured moment of sound. Syllables I silenced with string filled ears; my diplomatic eyes rejoiced with (expression) drips of invisible recollections.

I thought (you knew) the way a piano shakes the leaves off my gripped heart tree. And (you said) how it’s hard for me to (fit in) manipulate a world where I can –

(talk).

Grey clouds on a cobalt sky bring me comfort you can’t (touch). The (discomforting) reality of my bruised lip and watery gaze frightens you. Because once you thought you could (fix) change (it) –

me. I don’t mind.

The natural (trick) imperceptibility of how (souls) I trace walk up and down my unabashed spirit that just isn’t –

(good enough) for you.

I’m (not) sorry.

I’m not sad.